Anna Carver walked slowly down the familiar cobblestone street, the late afternoon sun washing the quiet town in gold. She loved this place—its stillness, its closeness—but sometimes that stillness pressed on her chest. Thirty years old, and still alone. Her friends had families now, children tugging at their hands, laughter filling their homes. She prayed for the same, but her convictions had driven away every man who tried to rush her into things she could not accept.

The church doors creaked open under her hand, the scent of old wood and candle wax embracing her like it always did. Here, she sought comfort, prayer, the calm voice of her pastor when the weight of her own doubts grew heavy. She slid into a pew, clasping her hands, whispering silent words to God—words of longing, words tinged with quiet fear that time was slipping past her.

But then she noticed him. A man she had never seen before, sitting at the very back, head tilted toward the altar, eyes fixed on the image of Christ. His stillness was different—intent, searching. In a town where she knew every face, every story, he was a mystery. Something stirred in her chest, perhaps God had not finished writing her story.